


may we meet again

by emmaofmisthaven



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-25 08:31:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2615156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaofmisthaven/pseuds/emmaofmisthaven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>three times they aren't reunited, and one time they are</p>
            </blockquote>





	may we meet again

Clarke has never been the religious type, has never believed in some deity in the sky – she’s touched the stars alright, seen them from up close, and saw nothing but the infinity of the universe in front of her. No guardian angel, no bigger-than-thou entity to watch her back. Clarke isn’t the religious type, but she finds herself praying, with all her mind and all her soul, as the door of the dropship opens in front of her.

She prays for her people, for the one who couldn’t make it on time before the explosion. She prays for Finn and Bellamy, for the roguish grin he will offer her with some sarcastic quip that will make her roll her eyes. She prays, body and soul, because she has already too much blood on her hands and doesn’t know how she could survive knowing she killed them, knowing she was the one behind their death.

She doesn’t know how she could survive without him.

But she steps outside and all she sees is grey, the grey of ashes, the bodies nothing more than bones – friends and foes alike in death. Smoke clings to her lungs and waters her eyes, and she feels sick in the stomach as she realises what happened, what is happening, as an icy shiver creeps up her spine.

.

(Orange smoke envelops her and, whatever it is, she deserves it.)

.

The walls are too white, too clean, too everything. Just the sight of it burns her eyes in its purity after too many a day in the woods, mud under her nails and dirt in her hair. The Ark was clean too, but not like that, not like some kind of hospital like in those old movies her father used to watch.

She’s scared, and she admits it for the first time in her life.

She’s scared, back to the wall and knees against her chest, closing her eyes so tightly she sees stars. She takes little comfort in them, even if the stars are home, because this place, whatever it is, is something else entirely and she isn’t sure she can come out of it alive.

Not that it will stop her from trying.

She closes her eyes and she thinks _princess_ with a small, self-deprecated, chuckle. What a damsel in distress she makes, locked up in some unknown tower with no way out. Clarke Griffin has never been one who needs saving, too proud and stubborn to ask for help, but she closes her eyes and asks the stars for a knight in shining armour to come and save them all.

She sees him in the darkness of her shut eyelids, boyish grin and hair falling in front of his eyes, laughing of his saviour title as he sweeps her off her feet and get them all out of here. She sees him alright, bigger than life itself, how he would rip people apart if it means the hundred would come out of it alive, safe. Free.

But then she opens her eyes and only meets white, and her heart sinks in her stomach at the realisation that no one is coming.

That she is alone.

.

(Her life isn’t fairy tales material and, sometimes, the dragon wins.)

.

She doesn’t know why she expects to see him in the woods. She has made her peace by now, somehow, knows the chances of him still being alive are slimmer with each passing day. She refuses to think his name, because it would make things all too real, so she holds on to the image of him, holds on to her withering hope.

Maybe, just maybe.

Each step she takes brings her closer to the dropship, closer to them. Because he might be dead, but it doesn’t mean they all are, and she will be damn if she doesn’t keep looking for them, if she lets them down now of all moments.

She still hopes at every turn she and Anya take, her heart still misses a beat every time she sees something in the corner of her eyes. Shadows and animals, of course, a punch to the guts every time – she tells herself it’s good, tells herself her hope isn’t completely destroyed yet.

She’s afraid of what will happen when it is.

She refuses to think about it.

So she keeps walking, one foot in front of the other, and keeps scheming – Anya can’t keep her captive forever. She will find her way out. She will, and when she does she will go back to the dropship and starts from there, because you need to start from somewhere anyway.

And Raven wasn’t at Mount Weather, so there’s that, too.

.

(The forest used to be heaven, then hell. Now, it feels like a graveyard.)

.

Raven is alive and her mother is alive, and for a moment Clarke’s skin buzzes with some kind of excitement, like she can fly, like she’s invincible. She can’t stop grinning even as they feed her some roots for dinner, even as they clean her face and patch her wounds, even as they force her to bed with the promise of still being there in the morning.

She’s asleep the moment her head touches the pillow, the dreamless sleep of too many a bad night, too many an hour staring at the ceiling and fearing for lives that aren’t hers.

If only for one night, she’s safe.

The following morning is another kind of buzz, for she wakes up to the sound of ‘newcomers at the gates!’ She runs, heart beating faster, hoping against hope – because that’s what she always does, an optimistic in a world of pessimism.

Nothing prepares her to the sight of him.

Absolutely nothing.

And he stares right back as his name tumbles out of his mouth, eyes wide when they take her in. He’s alive but so is she, and it occurs to her he might have been as worried than her about them, all of them. It occurs to her, for a couple of seconds only, that it doesn’t really matter as long as he’s here.

She isn’t sure who moves first, but maybe it is her – all she knows is that her arms are around his neck, his wrapped around her waist, and nothing matters but this, them. They’ve never done it before, intimacy a luxury when you fight for your life every hour of every day, but they fit quick nicely, hard muscles against soft curves, his smile in her neck as he whispers a broken ‘Princess’ that has her laugh shakily.

She wants to laugh and scream and cry, because if he’s alive then others are too, if he’s alive then they can save their people from Mount Weather. If he’s alive, then so is she, fates so entwined now she feels like breathing for the first time in days.

“You stink, by the way,” he whispers for her only to hear, as if bound to ruin the moment.

But he stinks too, to be quite honest, blood and forest and death clinging to his skin – the scent of earth they all have, the one that speaks of too many heartbreaks for such young people. It is unpleasant but familiar too, in odd ways she couldn’t explain even if she tried.

“Gosh, Octavia, I’m so glad you’re here too,” comes a sarcastic voice behind them, and Clarke laughs at the same time Bellamy chuckles and shakes his head.

He lets go of her, but his hand brushes down her arm, pinky finger holding on to hers even as she pulls Octavia into a hug.

She doesn’t let go, either.


End file.
